Peanuts In My Pocket

I’m spending my mornings this week at the south end of Huntington Beach while my grandson learns to surf. Most of my time is spent birding and exploring. It’s the kind of solitude I enjoy, until I don’t. Today was one of those days. I’m still dealing with stomach issues, as I mentioned in an earlier post, so I needed to stay close to the (gulp) public restrooms. To make matters worse, I forgot the batteries for my Nikon Z8, which meant no bird photography. I grew bored and restless, but walking was out of the question. After about half an hour of frustration, I grabbed my backup camera, a Fujifilm X-Pro3, and took this seemingly mundane shot just to test the setup.

While reviewing the photo on my iPhone, I realized I had captured a moment in these kids’ lives that I used to know well but had somehow forgotten, the completely satisfying experience of doing absolutely nothing. Between the ages of sixteen and eighteen, I was a master of it. But now, at sixty-four, I seem to have forgotten how.

Life was simpler then. I’d take my old VW to the beach with a surfboard, a beach chair, and a little cooler filled with food and drinks. After surfing, I’d wrap myself in loose clothing (I’m a ginger) and sit for hours, just watching the waves and doing nothing. Life came charging in soon after I turned eighteen, and before I knew it, I was a wage slave with an adorable wife and baby. The chance to sit at the beach in silence faded so quickly that I forgot what it even felt like.

Adulthood brought opportunities, but they were different. We still went to the beach, but it was social, usually with kids and a small group of friends. Beach trips and vacations became about escaping work and doing something memorable with the family. The solitude was gone, except for those rare moments when I could sneak off to a quiet spot for some time alone. Don’t get me wrong, I cherished those family getaways. I lived for them, and they remain among my most treasured memories. Also, you can’t miss what you don’t remember.

Watching the kids in this photo, I realized I had the chance to recapture that original feeling. I took my watch off, turned off my phone, found a bit of shade, and did absolutely nothing for an hour and a half. I just watched people, birds, waves, and clouds. I’m sixty-four, but I could have been seventeen again,aside from the old, worn-out body. Mentally, I managed to reconnect with that feeling of loving the sunshine, the wind on my face, and the silence. I let my mind wander, and it ended up somewhere good.

One thought stuck with me: Huntington Beach feels curated. The idea unsettled me enough that I took notes for another blog post. For now, I’ll just say that the beach city of my youth felt magical, while today’s version seems artificial and, at times, vaguely dystopian. More on that soon.